


A meeting by moonlight

by SenTheSeventh



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7785370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenTheSeventh/pseuds/SenTheSeventh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They first meet when Station management is howling at a gibbous moon... [Spoilers for up to the 82th episode]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A meeting by moonlight

They first meet when Station management is howling at a gibbous moon* through the Forbidden Tapes Storage's window. City council is out, venting to the boundless, dark sky and to terrified, fleeing citizens about crafty radio speakers and clever young girls in wheelchair (“That is so very strange”, Cecil says over the radio. “Who could they be referring to? I have no idea, listeners. Noooo idea. Nope. Huh-huh. Total perplexity on our part! Life is so weird! And now, more about the hair-spider scandal at Macy's hairdresser salon...”).

City council is growing increasingly agitated. With time, most Night Vale citizens have developed impressive running, slithering, flying or at least general moving-away skills, and thus it's hard to find enough victims to appease their inhuman administrative rage. Furthermore, radios everywhere are broadcasting Cecil's engrossing tale of the hair-spider scandal and the thousand-times reverberated voice of the anchor is driving them even madder though a little captivated (“Young intern Lisa is telling us they're moving, though so slowly she didn't see it at first”, Cecil continues. “Their mandible are dripping with hair... The hair is slowly turning translucent, but such a pretty absence of colour, she says... Her voice is getting unsteady...”).

Midnight strikes.

Then it strikes again, just to make a point.

Station management's howls reach their dramatic apex, covering a range of sounds only half of which humanity is able to conceive if not hear. An especially well-done low note breaks a few windows pane and cuts through City council's blood-lust.

They raise their head and see the terrible beauty of Station management**. It's not the first time they see each other, certainly; they crossed path once or twice, a blink of official bloodstones and business-related ceremonies. But it's the first time they see Station management like _this_ , their faces free from anything but pure, raw passion.

Something stop for them. They forget about the rage, the blood-lust or the hair-spider scandal. Nothing matter but that noise and those faces.

They call out awkwardly. They need a few tries to be heard, and then Station management finally look at them. For one of the first times of their existence, City council is at a loss about what to do. Then their gaze fall on their surrounding and, deftly, they rearrange a human spleen in the shape of the glyph for “new-found beauty” to raise it toward the Forbidden Tapes Storage's window.

“Do you skate?” they ask.

Station management look at them, then their faces slowly change into new, promising shapes.

“I don't, but I will”, they say.

“To the family of intern Lisa, please know that our thoughts are with you in these painful times”, Cecil says.

City council grins and howl softly, a teasing reminder of the blood-curling, nerve-wreaking scream that previously distorted the air. Station management echoes their smile and their cry; their voice mix, melt into each other, digging creases in the cement wall and knocking a few bats off the air. Sand shimmers and trembles at the feet of City council; the shattered remains of the Forbidden Tapes Storage's window screech a broken glass' howl. The noise rises slowly and then burst like a storm, shaking buildings all over the town. At the radio station, Cecil excuses himself to attend to an especially severe case of nose-, ear- and eye-bleeding. The weather replaces him, a melancholic discordant number that makes a fitting accompaniment to their screams -- like it was chosen for them, for this single perfect moment.

In Macy's hairdresser salon, the hair-spider drops dead, its fragile and talented mandibles destroyed by an especially devastating outburst of high notes***.

“Good night, listeners. Good night”, Cecil says from somewhere far away and unimportant.

And the night is good indeed, and dawn, and the days afterwards; all tinged with the sweet, slightly rotting smell of love.

 

**_The end_ **

_____________________

* Not _the_ gibbous moon, but _a_ gibbous moon, rotting away in the translucent sky alongside the normal moon, or what we like to believe is the “normal” moon.

** Any reading of the word “terrible” being simultaneously exact in this matter, due to the subjective natures of taste and sanity.

*** Though its heritage will remain, like its a- _ma_ -zing method to get rid of white hair and an especially astute accountant trick about shampoo-tax reduction.


End file.
